


turn a page in our history (spells that bind us)

by Mikkal



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Asexual Character, Asexual Newt Scamander, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Non-binary character, OT3, semi-modern au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-08 13:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8846578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkal/pseuds/Mikkal
Summary: So, Tina now finds herself standing in front of the rather rundown bookstore so cleverly named Fantastic Books and Where to Find Them.
  In the rain.
  Because she forgot an umbrella.
  ...again.
in which there are animal smugglers, a magical bookstore, two tired aurors, a magizoologist who...owns a laptop? what? a bakery/cafe owned by a no-maj. and a little thing called hurt/comfort and love.





	1. Chapter 1

 

_Why am I here?_

Here: _Fantastic Books and Where to Find Them_.

I: Porpetina ‘Tina’ Goldstein, established auror and current sodden rat (or puppy, really. With the floppy hat weighed down by rain and the general sad expression on her face, she’s not opposed to being compared to a sodden puppy. At least they’re cute.)

Why: President Seraphina Picquery.

Or, with more words:

Seraphina Picquery, who is getting tired of hoards of unsavory wizards smuggling magical beasts in New York and the rest of the United States of America. And _even more_ tired and exasperated by the fact that half the time they can’t even figure out what kind of beasts they are despite the hundreds of clues readily available to them - because, of course, their archives were purged in 1760 along with enacting the Magical Beast Ownership and Breeding Ban of 1759. And the Revision of 1823 and Amendment of 1904.

Someone either did their job really horribly or really well, there’s no way of telling.

So, Tina, being the one who drew the short straw, now finds herself standing in front of the rather rundown bookstore so cleverly named _Fantastic Books and Where to Find Them._

In the rain.

Because she forgot an umbrella.

...again.

According to some hush-hush whispers, _this_ is the place to find out anything you need to know about magical creatures. Owned by one Newton Artemis Fido Scamander, originally from Dorest, England, and has been making his home and career in New York City for the last year - information also caught up with the hush-hush whispers of Things She’s Not Suppose To Really Know.

How Tina never heard about this man, she has no idea. She’d steadily made her way up the ladder in MACUSA, but, somehow, this has slipped through her constant reading into the archives. She’s kind of disappointed in herself, and Percival will definitely be hearing about this.

(She can see his face now: exasperated, resigned, and that thing he does when he pinches the bridge of his nose and pretends to be annoyed with her. But he’s secretly hiding a smile, or so Queenie claims.)

The windows are fogged up, whether that’s the weather or some sort of spell she’s not sure without testing, and lacquered on both windows on either side of the solid wood door is the name of the shop in a half curve around an intricately styled design of some sort of a snake with long wings and a beak sitting over an open book.

It’s already inviting, cozy looking with the soft glow of lamps inside, but something keeps her from entering it. She can’t tell if it’s the fact she has no real idea what she’s walking into or if it’s, somehow, because she already feels so out of place. Sodden puppy, left in the cold.

Her decision is made for her when the door creaks open and a head pops out, squinting at her through the gloaming of a rainy, dreary New York. The head belongs to a man, topped with wild soft brown hair and with a face dotted with freckles.

“You’ve been standing there for ten minutes, miss,” he says with the unmistakably tilt of Britishness in his voice. “Would you like to come in? It’s much warmer in the shop. I promise it’s still open.”

Tina’s face flushes at being caught, her cheeks warming behind her scarf. She pulls her coat tighter around her and debates just apparating away, but then decides that’s a bit childish and that she has a job that she really must do.

The man is gone by the time she makes it through the door, a bell ringing softly above her. There’s a fire in the corner, mysteriously not burning any of the books stacked precariously near it, and it’s a blast of warm air that has Tina tempted to stick her hands too close so she can feel them again. But, hey, she has common sense, so she doesn’t do that.

The shop is small and cozy, just like she guessed. Bookcases are stacked on all four sides with a door inconspicuously in the corner, shimmering the indicator of a no-maj glamour spell. None of the covers of any face-out book move in the signature of magic and wizardry. She smiles at a the cover of a cute children’s book about a fluffy cat so fluffy he floats like a butterfly.

Strangely enough, the man is nowhere to be seen, and she’s almost worried he disappeared through the glamour’d door to leave her behind, thinking she’s a no-maj. Tina slides off her scarf to re-wrap it - regretting it when the wet side slaps against the back of her neck.

“Ew.”

“Would you like a hot drink?”

She does _not_ yelp at the unexpected voice from behind her. She whirls around, yanking out her wand in one swift move, and points it at the man in a rather violent motion. She ends up aiming right at his nose, making him go crossed eyed to keep it in sight. He’s leaning back ever-so-slightly, though the tray with an air-pot labeled ‘coffee’ is still held out towards her.

“Er…”

“Mercy Lewis!” she exclaims, hastily flicking her wand away from his face. “I’m so sorry.” She let’s him take a step back before: “You don’t just sneak up on a witch like that, mister.”

He’s looking away from her, but the corner of his lip is twitching up in a smile. “My apologizes,” he says softly. His eyes flicker towards her and she’s struck by how _green_ they are, how wide and bright. His smile is lopsided and endearing. Oh, she might be in trouble here. “So, would you?”

Tina’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “Would I - ?” He lifts the tray towards her. “Oh! Yes, thank you. It’s surprisingly cold outside.”

  
The air-pot moves on it’s own, pouring her a perfect, generous amount of coffee. She’s surprised it’s not tea, considering he’s British and everything she knows about the Brits includes the fact they are obsessed with tea.

  
However distracting this man is though, it doesn’t keep her from glancing nervously out the window as cream pours itself into her cup and a spoon heaps sugar all on its own. Any no-maj out there can see!

  
“Don’t worry,” he assures her, that lopsided smile still there. The tray is hovering on it’s own now and he’s off to the fireplace, scooting the stack of books into a little less dangerous place. It still sways like it’s about to topple over any second now. “The wards around the front tell me who’s muggle - nope, sorry - _no-maj._ And who’s not. Any given moment the tray is ready to sit down on the shelves. I know you’re a witch.”

  
She raises an eyebrow, wrapping both hands around the mug. “Do you now?” She takes a sip. “Are you Newton Scamander?” Who else would he be?

  
He chuckles. “Just Newt is fine, miss.” He waves a hand and some lopsided books fix themselves, re-shelving to their proper places. “And you’re from MACUSA.”

  
“How - ?”

  
Newt grins rather mischievously. “Madame President warned me she was sending an auror to talk to me. I assume it’s you. Most of you have the same feel about you. Your magic is…tame.”

  
_Tame_?

  
“C’mon,” he adds, heading towards the glamour’d door. “Let’s find a more appropriate place to talk about _witchcraft and wizardry.”_ He adds a bit of flair to the ending of that sentence, almost sounding sarcastic. But it’s probably just water in her ears.

  
Tina glances back at the front door, feeling that flight or fight impulse rising again. She huffs out a breath and follows him with a bit of a march in her step. No, she needs information. And this is supposedly the perfect place, and perhaps the only place.

  
Walking through the door is like walking through a portal to another world. The small, slightly cramped, single floor room turns into a large, spacious, room with four balcony floors above her. A spiral staircase, ever shifting, twirls to each floor, depositing people where they seem to want to go. Clocks hang from the ceiling in one long chain at the center, each face holding a different time. When she looks closely she can see countries’ names printed on each face and the time reflecting that place, even with multiple in the same time zone.

  
Despite the grandness of the room itself, there’s still a worn, coziness about the place. And there’s only about ten people in the entirety of the whole building.

  
Tina’s jaw drops as she takes it all in. How on earth did she not know about this? How does every wizard in New York _not_ know about this?

  
Newt directs her to a small alcove holding an even smaller cafe that seems to work all on its own. A couple tiny tables and chairs cluster the space, allowing you to sit for a short time, but not be comfortable for more than that. Much different than the plush-looking chairs scattered around the rest of this balcony.

  
He takes a seat, looking both assured with himself and completely and utterly nervous. It’s a contradiction that catches her off guard. He taps his fingers in an off-beat pattern against the surface of the table, his foot jiggles, and his chin touches his shoulder as he looks away from her more often than not.

  
If it were anyone else, the fact that he can’t really meet her eyes for more than a couple of seconds would indicate a guilt of some sort. But she doesn’t really get that vibe from him. He just seems nervous in general.

  
“MACUSA was wondering if you were willing to help with a case,” she says, blunt and straight to the point. Percival would be proud.

  
He cocks his head, puzzled. “MACUSA has asked me to consult on a few cases here and there. Maybe about two in the time that I’ve been here. Particularly a breeder of Appaloosa puffskins that was also breeding aggressive-towards-no-maj kneazles at the time and selling them to mages and the occasional no-maj (as a prank in that case) in the area and Canada.”

  
His gaze drifts to over her shoulder. She glances back to see a kneazle curled up on the bannister, their purrs loud enough for her to faintly hear it. Mercy Lewis, is that one of those aggressive Kneazles?

  
“What’s this particular case about?”

  
Tina’s gaze snaps back to Newt. “Smugglers.”

  
“Of magical beasts, I assume,” Newt says. His expression hardens as he leans forward and, at the same time, smoothing out slightly into a disturbing blankness. “Madame President wouldn’t ask me for anything else.”

  
It’s a subtle shift. Before, he reminded her of a couple of her more scatterbrained teachers in school. But now, he reminds her exactly of Seraphina Picquery. No nonsense and completely focused on the problem at hand. Nothing would stop either of them from completing their goal.

  
Tina nods, leaning forward to meet him in intensity. “In the last three months there has been an increase in magical creature smuggling in New York, branching out to the rest of North America. We have never been able to catch them.”

  
Newt’s hands curl into fists just a brief second before he pulls them under the table out of sight.

  
“Every time we get close, they disappear. They leave no evidence behind. At most the beasts leave behind little clues. Like feathers or fur or droppings. But MACUSA’s records are not adept at helping us out in that department.”

  
He does that little lopsided grin again but with a darker twist, glancing over to the side at the clocks ticking away.. “No, I’d think they’re rather not. I’ve told Madame Picquery since day one they needed to recover as much as they could and build on what they know. But 1760 is a rather long time ago.”

  
Tina’s eyes widen slightly, she can’t imagine anyone telling Madame Picquery what to do. “They told me you were a magical beasts expert. Why are you working in a bookstore no one comes to instead of working for your Ministry or my Congress?”

  
Newt smiles brightly, shifting his expression again to something more open and excited. He leans back in his chair, meeting her eyes as he says: “I’ve been working in the field for the past six years. The Americas are my last stop, this is just my home base for right now. I’m writing a book on magical creatures..”

  
All right, that’s a bit unexpected….though she’s not sure why she finds it unexpected, he decided to make his home a bookstore so of course he’s writing a book.

  
“A book?” she says. “Like an extermination guide?”

  
He frowns, eyes round in hurt and practically pouting - and now she feels like she’s kicked a kitten. “You know what, just for that I’m agreeing to consult on this case with MACUSA. Just so I can change your mind about creatures. They shouldn’t be ‘exterminated,’ they should be protected and respected like any other animal in the world.”

  
Tina breathes out a small laugh. “Come by the Woolworth building tomorrow, eight sharp. Your name will be at the front desk.”

  
Newt rubs his nose, looking suddenly embarrassed. “You don’t believe me,” he mumbles. “That’s all right, you’re not the first.” He stands quickly, nearly knocking the table over. He hastily grabs it before it tips over. “Would you like me to walk you out?”

  
She releases the table from where she’d also grabbed it to keep it from falling. “Thank you. I should really try to get some sleep, I still need to do some paperwork.”

  
He runs his fingers through the kneazle’s fur as they past it, making the cat-like creature make a little ‘ _mrrup_ ’ noise in surprise. Big, yellow eyes follow them through the door and, honestly, it take everything in Tina’s powers not to pet the kneazle as well. Sleep and work making her keep her hands to herself.

  
The rain is still falling, a soft _pat-pat-pat_ rhythm. Tina sighs, dreading going back out into the cold rain. Something taps her elbow and she glances down to see the tip of an umbrella hovering there. She follows the umbrella to Newt’s hand, then to his face that has an pleading expression on it.

  
“Please take this,” he says. “You can leave it at the front desk and I can pick it up tomorrow.”

  
Tina shakes her head. “Thank you, Mr. Scamander, but I’ll be all right.”

  
He steps forward, gripping the umbrella with two hands now. “I insist,” he says softly.

  
She smiles and takes it. “Thank you very much.”

  
Newt smiles back, tucking his hands into his pockets and looking bashful. She exits, popping open the umbrella almost immediately, and makes it to the lamppost before she glances back through the window. A long, lean shadow stands there for a second longer, then turns to disappear into the corner of the room - through the glamour’d door.

  
It’s only then, really, that she realizes she never told him her name.

 

* * *

 

In the great halls of the Magical Congress of the United States of America, established in 1693 and held ground in four different places before making its home in the Woolworth Building in New York since 1892, there are exactly six people who should be, and are, feared.

  
The Madame President, Seraphina Picquery.

  
Vivianne Harvey, Chief of Staff.

Director Percival Graves, Head of of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and Director of Magical Security.

  
Auror Porpetina Goldstein.

  
Miss. Queenie Goldstein.

  
And Milah Mcneer, front desk secretary.

  
So, when you have Tina Goldstein marching down the hallway to Director Grave’s office, everyone is quick to dodge out of her way.

  
She doesn’t bother knocking on Percival’s door, the sensor spells in the immediate vicinity tell him who’s approaching anyway, so there’s no point unless she wants to be polite. And she doesn’t want to be polite right now.

  
“How is it that I didn’t know about Newt Scamander?” she more or less demands, bursting through the door with none of that preamble.

  
Percival doesn’t even bother looking up from his paperwork. Another signed and notarized paper wraps up into a mouse and scampers away.

  
Tina scowls. “Percy.”

  
He finally looks at her, rolling his eyes. “Percival,” he corrects with practiced patience and a bit of amusement. “You are neither my grandmama or my ma. My name is Percival.”

  
She throws her hands in the air, huffing.

  
It’s the same little back-and-forth they do whenever one of them finds themselves in the other’s office without anyone else around.

  
“ _Percival_ ,” she says in the same tone, taking a seat in front of his desk. “Why didn’t I know about Newt Scamander and his _Fantastic Books_?”

  
He sighs as he places his pen down, like she’s caused some sort of disturbance with her presence. She _definitely_ knows that he’s playing fake, he hates paperwork as much as the next person, if not more considering he gets the third most amount.

  
“Mr. Scamander’s bookstore is a….difficult case of need-to-know,” he says, leaning forward on his elbows. “He has official papers from his Ministry, detailing his commission for his book, and he’s here on a temporary basis.” He makes a face. “His bookstore happened by accident, by the time any of us noticed the spells were too grounded to bother trying to get rid of it.”

  
Tina raises an eyebrow. “How does a bookstore happen _accidently_?"

  
Percival scrubs his face, fingers running through his hair. “I have no idea,” he admits, that amused tilt still in his voice. “He’s a strange man. Brilliant, but strange.”

  
Her eyebrow stays high on her forehead and she leans forward. “Why, Mr. Graves,” she says teasingly. He narrows his eyes suspiciously. “If I didn’t know any better I’d say you were fond of this man.”

  
He turns his nose in the air, sitting back away from her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss. Goldstein,” he replies. “And it’s Director to you.”

  
“Then it’s Auror Goldstein to you, if we’re going down this road,” she counters. Her smile wides. “Oh, this is going to be the best. He’s coming by tomorrow at eight. And _you_ have to be there, officially in charge of the case and everything.”

  
“You,” he jabs a finger in her direction, “need to go back to your office and _do work_.”

  
Tina just laughs. “All right, all right.” She stands slowly, still leaning forward, but now with her hands on the surface of his desk so she can lean more towards him. “Don’t worry,” she whispers conspiratorially. “I think he’s rather handsome as well.” Strange, handsome, a mystery wrapped up in grey and yellow scarf and a brown vest.

  
Percival groans, covering his eyes with a hand. “ _Leave_ , Tina.”

  
_He’s not denying it!_ she thinks gleefully.

  
She wonders, now that she knows more about one Newt Scamander, if she can find more information about him in the archives. The more she thinks about the name, the more she realizes the name Scamander sounds so familiar.

  
Tina gives Percival a little wave before she finally leaves his office, he smiles in return despite the little flush on his cheeks, and heads to her own office with a little bounce in her step. She hasn’t felt this excited about something work related in a long time - something her sister had started getting worried about.

  
She doesn’t know too much about Newt Scamander, but, with how Percival is acting, she feels like they’re finally going to crack this case wide open, and she can’t wait to get a good night’s sleep for once.

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Five o’clock every morning finds one Percival Graves outside of his apartment dressed to run. Rain or shine. Or snow. Or hurricane winds.

  
\- before Seraphina got promoted she use to run with him, with a lot of complaining. The snow kept her away, so did the winds, but all the other times she’d grudgingly went along.

  
(In this case, it’s a grey overcast with swollen clouds threatening to rain.)

  
His path loops around several blocks, through Central Park, and passes by _The Bakery_. Perhaps _the_ most important part of his run, if he’s being honest. _The Bakery_ is both a coffee shop and a bakery owned by a no-maj named Jacob Kowalski, and Percival actually spent some time testing whether or not he actually is a no-maj because his pastries are, as Miss. Goldstein (Queenie) puts it, _magical_. (Percival will not and will _never_ lay claim to actually saying that out particular phrase loud.)

  
 _The Bakery_ also serves some of the best, top-quality coffee he’s ever had. Which is an important substance in an auror’s line of work.

  
It’s also a _very_ popular place for would-be authors and college students to make their homes, even if they’re usually more late night than early morning. Which means, it makes sense that a certain magizoologist likes to spend his time there writing his own book.

  
Sure enough, when Percival enters _The Bakery_ at six o’clock - sweaty and ever-so-slightly out of breath, but right on time - Newt Scamander is tucked in the back with his no-maj laptop in front of him. It’s got stickers from all over the world plastered on it, some of them overlapping to the point where he’s pretty sure there’s about three layers that aren’t even visible.

  
Percival has always been impressed by the fact Newt uses a laptop. Most wizards can’t stake a claim to keeping up with no-maj tech, and it doesn’t help that an over abundance of magic shorts out most tech anyway. So places like MACUSA, Newt’s _Fantastic Books_ , and any other place with a high concentration of magic, used and unused, are completely unsuitable for technology.

  
(There are several progressive-minded wizards working with some high-profile tech companies on a way to make them compatible, but it’s a recent endeavor and slow going.)

  
Credence, Jacob’s most recent and most tolerable barista, grins when they sees Percival. “Right on time, Mr. Graves.” They set a large cup on the counter, Percival’s name in nice, block handwriting. “One large dark roast, no room for cream. Did you want anything else today?”

  
Percival glances at his watch, he still has an hour and a half until he actually has to be at the office, and Newt has the same amount of time to check in. It wouldn’t hurt to spend a little time with his favorite magizoologist. Well, really, the only magizoologist he knows, but that doesn’t automatically make him his favorite.

  
When they first met Percival actually despised the Englishman - a man carrying a case with highly illegal magical creatures in it and only half the proper paperwork? Perical’s life _revolves_ around paperwork. Not to mention, with Grindelwald around and a truly magical war brewing, it’s highly suspicious for a traveling man to come to one of the most secretive countries, especially when his travels around the world are inherently hard to keep track of.

  
The Statute of Secrecy is no small thing.

  
Luckily, a case of misplaced fwoopers in Utah sort of brought them together. Then Newt settled down roots and started going to _The Bakery_ , really, what else was he supposed to do? Ignore him?

  
Honestly, Percival is not very good at ignoring interesting people. And Newt Scamander fits that description to a T.

  
“Something with chocolate,” he finally answers Credence. The younger mage (he resists the urge to test Mr. Kowalski once again for magic, he has a distressing habit of hiring wizards, witches, and mages to work for him) beams at him. “Something for breakfast.”

  
They go about bustling for the appropriate pastry, something to satisfy Percival’s secretive sweet-tooth and his breakfast needs. It ends up being a braided pastry of chocolate and bananas. Perfect.

  
Credence really is his favorite barista.

  
Percival pays for it and the coffee, leaving behind a tip of no-maj money and a couple dragots. Credence never seems to stop smiling, but it brightens as they pocket the dragots.

Newt is hard at work in that back corner, ceramic mug half full of something disturbingly light brown - a mocha latte probably, disgustingly sweet. Generally anything can be sweet, but _caffeine_ should not. _Coffee should not be sweet_ \- and a pen popped in his mouth between his teeth. He’s got two notebooks opened for him to consult and a scattering of sketches.

  
He doesn’t even notice Percival as he approaches, too engrossed in his work. It takes Percival sitting down, taking a drink of his coffee, and clearing his throat (twice) before Newt jumps, startled rather violently. His pen goes flying. His mocha gets knocked, toppling over in the opposite direction of his notes - thankfully - but the mug rolls off the table to shatter on the ground.

  
They both stare at it for a long moment. Percival feels a little bad for scaring Newt so badly. He didn’t mean to, but, also, he’s never seen Newt react so dramatically to being scared in situations like this before.

  
Newt glances up at him through his fringe. “Sorry,” he mumbles, dabbing at the puddle on the table with some napkins. There’s no real urgency since his notes are safe.

  
He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you like that,” he replies. He eyes Credence as they come closer, a washcloth in hand and with their other hand hidden awkwardly under it. “Are you okay?”

  
Newt laughs, a little hysterical if Percival’s not mistaken. “Yes, I’m fine.” Newt thinks he’s a pretty good liar, Percival never had the heart to tell him otherwise. “I’m sorry for breaking one of your mugs,” he tells Credence when they make it over to the table.

  
Credence shrugs. “Mr. Kowalski doesn’t mind,” they answer. “Plus,” they grin, both mischievously and hopefully, “what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, right, Mr. Scamander?”

  
He laughs again, this time a little softer and a little more fondly. “Right, Mx. Barebone.” He gestures towards the cloth. “I assume - ?”

  
Credence shifts, reveals a wand in their hand. It’s a simple dark brown wand, but the simple plainness is off-set by the mother of pearl swirls inlaid in the handle.

  
Percival raises an eyebrow at the two conspirators. “Need I remind the both of you what my occupation is?”

  
Newt smiles at him sheepishly while Credence slides their wand out of sight, looking guilty. But then they both turn pleading puppy-dog eyes on him.

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You know, I use to follow the rules before I met you,” he tells Newt. Newt just sticks his tongue out childishly.

  
“Somehow I doubt that, Mr. Graves,” Newt says teasingly.

  
“ _Percival_ ,” he says sternly, exasperated. “My _name_ is _Percival_. Why do you and Tina insist on calling me otherwise? Her with her ‘Percy’ and you with the ‘Mr. Graves.’”

  
Newt raises an eyebrow, suddenly curious. His eyes flicker up to meet Percival’s for a brief moment - which he takes as a victory - before he goes back to coaxing Credence to pull out their wand again.

  
“Who’s Tina?”

  
Percival rarely shows shock or surprise on his face, it gives too much away. Annoyance? Yes. Anger? Not so much, people can do a lot of damage knowing they’ve caused you to be angry. In this case, he keeps his surprise and confusion off his face, instead he says evenly:

  
“What do you mean ‘who’s Tina?’ You met her last night.”

  
“I did? - Oops, it’s a _short_ flick side to side, Credence. Like this.” He demonstrates the repairing charm with his own light colored wand, never saying the incantation. “And it’s _reparo_. Try again, you’ve almost got it,” he urges smoothly. Credence silently practices the wand movements as Newt turns his attention back to Percival. “I’ve met Tina?”

  
Percival can only nod, struck a quiet by the soft expression on Newt’s face when he talks to Credence about magic. The poor mage had been suppressed from their magic most of their life, only able to do accidental magic to keep it from bursting out from them violently like the tales of old. It wasn’t until recently that they were able to even figure out how to get a wand, and even more recently before they approached Newt with enough confidence to ask for lessons. They are a bit too old to go to Ilvermorny.

(He tries not to think about how Credence knew they could ask Newt for magic lessons. It would be a) a headache, b) _more_ paperwork he doesn't really have the time or the patience for, and c) just….no.)

“Wait!” Newt snaps his fingers suddenly, expression lighting up. “Is Tina the auror who came by my shop last night?” He narrows his eyes, thinking. “Hold on a second. Tina. Auror. Auror Porpentina Goldstein, the one you talk about all the time?”

  
Percival clears his throat, taking a deliberate, stalling sip of his coffee that he quickly follows with a too-large bite of his chocolate-banana pastry. He feels like a chipmunk now, damn it. He swears he’s not blushing, or turning even close to a pink color. Nope, it’s undignified for a Graves.

  
Credence muffles a giggle behind their hand, but Newt is not as nice - he just laughs out right.

  
“You’re adorable,” Newt coos like he’s talking to one of his damnable creatures. (Newt once compared him to his Nundu and he’s...not sure how he feels about that to be honest.) “Isn’t he adorable, Credence?”

  
The mage nods rapidly in agreement (they are no longer his favorite barista, that traitor!) then - flicks their wand in one sharp movement, their lips pressed in a tight line. The broken mug on the floor tremble for a second or two before the pieces _fly_ together back onto the table, a small bit of Newt’s sad mocha goes from the tiny spot puddle on the surface of the table to pour itself back into the now-whole mug.

  
Newt stares at it, wide-eyed. “Credence,” he says, voice soft and indistinguishable. Credence shuffles back slightly, looking nervous. “That was _beautiful_ ,” he breathes, completely astonished and in awe. He beams at Credence with the blinding light of the sun. “The way you just,” his hands wave in a dramatic and completely inaccurate version of the charm, “- without a word! Beautiful!”

  
Percival chokes on his pastry, thrown by the sudden, inexplicable urge to just grab Newt by the face and kiss him - to grab him and see what sunlight tastes like. It’s entirely uncharacteristic of him, unbelievably poetic.

  
Credence eyes him like they know exactly what he’s thinking, the corner of their lip twitching into a smirk. “Thank you, Mr. Scamander,” they say quietly, turning back New, the tips of their ears turning red. “It’s all thanks to you.”

  
Newt shakes his head. “I don’t think so, Mx. Barebone. I assure you, your talent for magic is innate and _glorious_. I’m merely teaching you a few ways to harness and direct. Your ability to actually act out the spells and complete them is all on you.”

  
He finally manages to swallow the pastry without choking further and takes a good sip of his coffee to down the last of the stickiness. “Truly impressive, Credence,” he rasps out, then offers: “Perhaps I can show you some more spells sometime, as well?”

  
It’s a spur of the moment offer. What is he doing, offering this mage lessons? Newt is handling it all right, if a bit illegally.

  
But then Newt meets his eyes and smiles an all tooth smile at him, like he can barely contain his joy and pleasure at Percival’s offer.

  
Suddenly, Percival is willing to make all the time Credence needs to learn, just to have that smile directed at him again.

  
(Credence’s softer, but no less thankful, smile is just the straw that breaks the camel’s back and Percival finds himself rearranging his normal schedule to accommodate the lessons.)

 

* * *

  
Percival is running exactly five minutes and twenty-seven seconds late (his pocket watch so helpfully chirps out as soon a he steps over MACUSA’s welcome mat and wordlessly charms the water out of his hair, it’d started pouring fourteen seconds ago). He’d like to blame a lead on their smuggling case, or a lead on Gertrude Melifas’ murder (separate cases. One is Case # MC - 00134-26-01 and the other is Case # MM - 03284-26-12), but, really, it was because he came home in a daze and promptly lost track of time.

  
It’s all Newt Scamander’s fault and as soon as he gets the courage he suddenly seems to be lacking he’ll tell the man that.

  
Instead he checks the front desk, Milah is working this morning, and finds that Newt has checked in on time, if not about a minute or so early, and Tina escorted him upstairs to the Major Investigation Department’s bullpen. He stops by his office to drop of his coat and to check if any important memos have dropped on his desk before he makes his way over to the bullpen.

  
There’s a crowd of aurors in the center, murmuring to each other. They don’t notice Percival approaching. Their attention fixated on the scorching, yet contained, fire in the shape of a dragon emitting from Newt’s palm. His face is shadowed from the dragon roaring towards the sky, but there’s a curious tilt to his lips.

  
Tina is the closest, unable to tear her eyes away from, not the dragon, but the man showing off what an Ukrainian Ironbelly looks like. Percival’s seen this spell before, it’s one of Newt’s favorite, more theatric spells. She’s enthralled, a smile slowly forming.

  
“And what, pray tell, is going on here?” Percival booms in his best ‘Director of Magical Security and Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement’ voice. He always adds a bit of a Sonorous Charm to it, this he’ll admit to.

  
He’s pleased to note most of, if not all minus two, his aurors jump and scramble to make it seem like they’d been working this entire time instead of letting them be distracted by some magical flair. Of course, the only two that don’t move are Tina and Newt. She glances up to meet his gaze head on and Newt just keeps his eyes on his palm as his dragon shrinks to fit comfortably on it.

  
Percival sweeps past the aurors, who really seem to be working now, closer to the pair before he asks: “What brought this on?”

  
“Someone didn’t believe he’s ever seen an Ukrainian Ironbelly before,” Tina explains. Her fingers twitch like she’s resisting the urge to pet the little fire demon Newt’s conjured. “We compared the likeness to one in a book Litchnee had.” She smirks. “Seems Mr. Scamander's telling the truth.”

  
Newt huffs, letting the dragon curl in on itself before it disappears in a puff of orange smoke. “Auror Goldstein, I told you to call me Newt, please. I insist.”

  
“Then call me Tina,” she counters. “It goes both ways.”

  
Newt ducks his head, looking embarrassed. “You’re the one who didn’t tell me their name last night,” he mutters ever-so quietly.

  
Tina looks so offended Percival actually struggles not to laugh. “Excuse me, you never asked. _It goes both ways_.”

  
Percival clears his throat. “Well, now that you two are officially introduced, shall we get back to, I don’t know, _work_?”

  
Auror Porpetina Goldstein, gold standard of her class and general pain in his ass with how nosey she is (he wouldn’t trade her for anyone in the world), snaps him a lazy salute of sarcasm. Newt doesn’t look up, nodding his head as he brushes soot from his hands.

  
“Sir, Director Graves, Sir.”

  
“It’s _Percival_. Mercy Lewis. Tina, I swear to -.”

 

* * *

  
Tina, now sitting in her own office with the usual stacks and stacks of paper on either side of her and a new, shorter stack in the center of her desk, watches Percival go with a hit of wistfulness in her thoughts. She really likes that particular suit of his. It’s dark grey instead of black and he almost always to pair it with a pale purple paisley tie that seems almost uncharacteristic of him, but still fits with his overall look.

  
“Purple is a good color on him,” Newt mumbles, pulling File # MC - 00134-26-01 (7 of 10 files) off the stack to flip through it. She glances at him sharply, noticing the way he won’t look at her but his face is slowly turning red. He shrugs without ever looking up. “I always thought he looked good in purple,” he admits. “I’ve known him for a year, you think I’d never take notice?”

  
She hums, sitting back and taking Newt Scamander in with new light.

  
It’s no secret that one Percival Graves is the most admired man in MACUSA (can’t say person, because Seraphina Picquery has both ‘most admired person’ and ‘most admired woman’ in her court), and many witches and wizards and mages would enjoy very much to catch his attention. But he just, never seemed to care? It hurt a little, when she first started working - when she was naive and thought the world was a lot kinder and simpler - but now she knows. And now she admires him from afar and just tries to be the best auror she can be for her own sake.

  
And admiring from afar also includes enjoying how purple looks on him and the way his suits are tailored to fit his shoulders perfectly. She, herself, isn’t perfect, and she will never fault herself for looking.

  
Newt’s shoulders creep up to his ears, his back curling. “Can we get to the case?” he asks in a quiet voice.

  
She slowly grabs the first six files before the one he has and spreads them out. “Of course,” she answers, something strange churning in her stomach. No, churning is the wrong word. More like rolling... _fluttering_.

  
Tina keeps her eyes on Newt’s profile, trying to be as subtle as she can. It’s obvious he’s uncomfortable with being the center of attention and she doesn’t want to make him even more uncomfortable to be around her.

  
She hadn’t noticed it last night, too distracted by, well, _everything_ , but his eyelashes are uncommonly long and there’s a rather wide scar that curves from under his jaw to behind his ear. As soon as he starts reading the file he’s picked up, all his attention is riveted on the list of animals MACUSA _thinks_ the smugglers had. She doubts anything can tear him away from it, with how his finger drags across each line he reads.

  
Earlier this morning, earlier than she had any right to be at work, she finally found out why Newt’s name sounded so familiar: his brother, Theseus Scamander the War Hero.

  
His name was all over _The New York Ghost_ last year in conjunction with numerous reports filing through for his actions in Canada against Grindelwald’s forces. While it only cracked the Dark Wizard’s facade just a bit, it had been more than anyone else had ever done other than Albus Dumbledore.

  
Rumor says Theseus had been hurt horribly in the process. They’re half-unfounded, but most people will admit they’ve never seen Theseus Scamander in public since then.

  
(She won’t ask him about it, for both their sakes.)

  
“Ashwinder eggs,” Newt murmurs suddenly. “You found ashwinder eggs at one of the scenes?”

  
Tina swallows and nods. “They hadn’t been preserved fast enough,” she says. “They were coals by the time we got there. The smugglers must’ve left in too much of a hurry.”

  
“They’re a key ingredient in love potions,” he says, the grief in his voice practically palpable. “Some think they might be useful for brainwashing.”

  
She refrains from reaching over to brush her fingers on his exposed wrist in comfort. It doesn’t take much to realize he doesn’t like to be touched. Litchnee had clapped a hand on his shoulder earlier and his face had gone bone white.

  
It’s got a scar there too, wrapped around his wrist like an ugly bracelet. There’s a silvery white bite mark on the webbing between his pointer and thumb.

  
“How long have you been researching magical creatures for your book, Newt?”

  
Newt’s head snaps up, eyes wide. Well, that seems to be one way of getting his attention. “What?”

  
Tina tilts her head, trying to make herself look a little more vulnerable. “How long have you been researching magical creatures?” she repeats patiently. Predator/prey dynamic, something he’d be familiar with. She’s an auror, automatically predator, but she doesn’t want him to see her like that.

  
“Eight years,” he replies, sounding faintly bemused. “My manuscript is to be turned in next summer. Though I suspect there’ll be more than one edition. Eight years is hardly enough time to record every single magical creature in the world.”

  
Despite her misgivings and general lack of knowledge, she has to agree with him. Her childhood tales and storybooks were full of different kinds of creatures. Maybe some of them are the same ones through different lenses, maybe some of them were a blending of many different ones into one. It all comes down to: there’s a lot of creatures out there in the world.  
“Sounds like a lot of work.”

  
He grins. “Yes. Yes, it does. But it’s worth it.” He pulls his file closer to himself. “The more I can educate my fellow mages about the creatures that live alongside them, the better.” His expression flickers darkly. “Though, smugglers like this and your bans don’t help. It teaches people to associate magical creatures with the wrong side of the law, it shows people that the only thing they should feel when they see one is fear.”

  
Hm. Tina never really thought about it that way. And now she feels sort of guilty despite the fact she didn't enact the ban in the first place.

  
“What do you see?” she asks then. His eyebrows furrow and she realizes she steered the focus away from the case for too long. Oops. “In your file. We know about the ashwinder eggs, but only because of what was left behind. Does anything else we found tell you about what they have? How they could be using them?”

  
Newt glances down at the papers. “A demiguise,” he murmurs, tapping his nails against her desk. They’re rough nails, bitten and with some dirt deep in the corners. “The silver furs you found, with the faint translucent-ness to it? They’re prized for knock-off invisibility cloaks. And probably a jabberknoll. They have speckled blue feathers, white for males and purple for females. They're prized for truth serums and memory potions. The silver eggshells belong to occamy, not much use of the creature in terms of smugglers, but the eggs can be used to fund whatever they have. I can’t tell the others.” His lips press in a thin line.

  
“They have an menagerie,” Tina breathes, heart pounding. Newt’s hands tighten around the edge of her desk, knuckles bleaching pale. “Ashwinders, demiguise, jabberknolls, occamy, and who knows what else. Dark creatures.”

  
Suddenly he shoves himself away from her desk and stands to pace, fingers tugging on the cuffs of his peacock teal coat. “Not _Dark_ ,” he snaps out. “Just creatures - _animals_. There are no Dark or Light creatures, only people. It is their nature to do what they do, while mages are given these magicks that they choose to use the wrong way.” He sweeps an arm out, a grand gesture to indicate the case files. “ _These_ creatures? They don’t ask for this.”

  
Tina finds herself jumping to her feet. “Newt, I’m sorry,” she says, voice even. “I didn’t mean it that way, I promise.” She finds herself wanting to say ‘ _educate me’_ because, honestly, she’s spent so much time with the good vs evil thought for humans, she never once thought about creatures.

  
She also finds herself desperately wanting to not be thought bad of by this man - this handsome, passionate man that Percival Graves enjoys the company of. If it says anything about anyone’s character, it’s Percival’s reactions and tolerances towards them. She hasn’t seen Percival react like that to people before, other than Madame Picquery.

“Calm down,” she says instead of what she wants.

His fingers curl tight around the cuff of his sleeve and holds on. He glances at her, meeting her eyes for a long second before her looks away again. His mouth is still in that unhappy, dangerous line.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I don’t -” He sighs then says: “My brother says I care too much sometimes. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m sorry.”

  
Tina relaxes, letting a tentative smile form. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said.” She pats the desk. “C’mon, you should sit. We need to make a list of the creatures you figured out, and makes sure we record what they could be used for. And we still have to figure out how they know we’re coming. “

  
Newt shuffles where he stands for a long minute. “I’m not sure how much use I’d be with that last bit,” he admits quietly.  
“It’s worth a try,” she says. “Second pair of eyes and all.”

  
He bites his bottom lip then nods. “All right. If it might help.”

  
They sit down at the same time, both of them chuckling awkwardly at that. Tina slides the first six files towards him.

  
“These detail the raids on their warehouses,” she tells him. He picks at the corner of one of the folders for a second before picking it up. “The rest of the files are just other items we confiscated.” He opens one, skimming the words. “We’ve done seven raids, one of them turned out to be unconnected, but the other six warehouses were empty of people and creatures. We don’t know how they’re escaping before we get there.”

  
“It’s odd,” Newt says under his breath, never looking up from the folder as he flips through the pages.

  
Tina taps on the one he stops at. “There was blood at a few of them, from multiple sources. Normally we’d be able to figure out who the blood belongs to, but the magical signatures are degraded by the time we get there and they’ve been mixed together.”

  
“Even odder.”

  
She sighs. “Tell me about it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Tina pops her head through Percival’s office door to make sure he’s there before wandering in - well, wandering is not the right term. Percival looks disheveled, hair hanging over his forehead and his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. The top three buttons of his dress shirt are undone, but he still wears his vest.

  
And, suddenly, she has to ignore her very dry mouth.

  
Percival glances up at her, pausing in his work. “How can I help you, Tina?”

  
She finds herself having to take a moment, as she usually has to do when Percival Graves looks at her like that - a soft sort of fondness he doesn’t look at anyone else with. It’s the type of expression that gives her a little too much hope.

_Too much._

  
“I’ve got the preliminary list of creatures Newt was able to identify yesterday.” She plops the list on his desk before taking a seat in his visitor chair. She swings a leg over the armrest, leaning back on the opposite one.

  
Once upon a time she would _never_ even think about doing this. When she was hired she had been so nervous, so scared of screwing up. And she did, she screwed up a lot - though no more than any other junior auror. But Percival - then Director Graves - would just gruffly tell her “it’s all a learning experience, Auror Goldstein, learn from it,” which then evolved to a hand on her shoulder and “don’t worry about it, Tina, you did well.”

  
She made mistakes, then made sure she never made them again, and found herself on more and more cases and stings and stake outs with Percival. Really, it’s all unfair, how close they were...are.

  
He is gruff with all his aurors, gruff but fair. Terrifying, but fair. Even to her, but there’s always those moments.

  
Percival skims over the list, the corners of his lips deepening into a frown. “This doesn’t bode well at all,” he murmurs. “They’re all a little too specific.”

  
“We thought so too,” Tina says, dipping her chin. “But neither of us could figure out what their endgame is with just a partial list.”

  
He hums, resting an elbow on his desk and leaning his cheek on a closed fist. Tina has to resist the urge to push his hair back to its neat state. “How are you liking Newt now that you finally know who each other are?”

  
Tina wrinkles her nose at him for that. Hey, it’s not her fault Newt hadn’t been polite enough to ask for her name (and in reverse - she never introduced herself.) But then she smiles.

  
“He’s all right, I guess,” she ventures. Percival gives her a knowing smirk. “You know what, you be quiet.”

  
“I didn’t say anything.” He taps some papers into a neat stack. “I’m glad you’re getting along.”

  
She is too, if she’s being honest. He’s polite, funny, adorable, smart, caring, attractive. After they went over the case files and she archived the list he wrote up, he offered to buy her dinner. He took her to a hole-in-the-wall she’d only been to once before a long time ago and regaled her with stories from his travels.

  
The memory of his expression as he told her about his friend Munuu in Malaysia and his friend Catalina in Spain, and the other copious amount of people he’s met and befriended and the creatures he’s found and equally befriend, will stay with her for a long time.

  
He’d been just as enthralled with her auror stories and about her sister, laughing heartily at a story about Percival and Queenie’s first introduction and her description of his expression of an offended cat.

  
Tina sits back and watches Percival work for a little longer. It’s always a pleasure to watch his mind work. In the privacy of his office, with a person he trusts as the only witness, every thought he has dances across his expression.

  
She can tell he’s working on the Melifas murder case, the furrow between his eyebrows and the frustrated downward turn of his lips giving it away.

  
“I’m here for a sounding board if you need it,” she offers. “Newt isn’t suppose to get here for another hour, he has a previously established appointment.”

  
Percival sits back in his chair. “Why not, it might help.”

  
About ten minutes into him talking the case out - which she doesn’t really need since she’s read the file a few times herself - he gets up and starts pacing the length of his cabinets, running a hand through his hair. Tina follows the movements, trying to be subtle.

  
They manage to narrow the list down to a handful, which after three months of having this case open is a pretty big leap of progress. Murders are uncommon, hard to solve murders are even rarer. With the magical community tiny compared to the no-maj population, there are very few suspects in any case that results in death. The snag in the design, though, is the fact that New York city is one of the biggest hubs of international traffic and immigration. While they’re suppose to register before they travel in anyway, there’s quite a few people who would rather keep their whereabouts unknown.

  
Percival has somehow made his way closer to her chair during their sounding board session, fingers drumming a beat on the back of it. Tina tilts her head up to watch him think only to find him looking down back at her, his expression unreadable.  
Someone knocks on his door, startling them both.

  
Percival clears his throat, straightening his collar and stepping away. He suddenly looks awkward, nervous, but then his face brightens, smiling.

  
“Come in!” he calls.

  
“Milah said you were in here, hope I’m not intruding,” Newt says, staying in the doorway, a small smile on his face. “I’d planned on waiting in Tina’s office, but Milah insisted. Sorry.” He shoves his hand in his pocket, leaning against the frame  
Tina rolls her eyes. Nosey witches. She loves Milah with all her heart, but she knows way too much for comfort. “You’re not intruding,” she says. “We just finished up.”

“How’d your appointment go?” Percival asks. Newt blinks at him in surprise. “Tina mentioned it.”

  
“Oh.” He shrugs. “It went all right. Just some magic lessons, the spells were a little tricky.” He winces. “Er, we fixed the structural damage. Don’t worry about that.”

  
Percival sighs. “Do I need to file anything?” He shoots Tina a half-hearted glare as she hides her laugh behind a hand.  
“Nope, pretty sure we got all if it.” Newt’s smile is a bit cheeky, making Tina laugh harder.

  
“You two…” Percival sits back down behind his desk with a huff. “Shoo, be gone.”

  
“Aw, Percival,” Tina says, hand over her heart. “That’s so harsh.”

  
Newt laughs. “It’s like he doesn’t care at all, Tina.” He offers out his elbow to her like a gentleman. “Obviously we’re unwelcomed here, let’s go.”

  
“Why thank you, Newt.” She stands, dusting herself off with exaggerated pompous-ness, and takes Newt’s elbow with a nose in the air. “Be seeing you, Percival.”

  
He waves a dismissive hand in response, resoundly starting at his paperwork. Tina exchanges grins with Newt, laughing still, as they head out his office towards hers.

* * *

  
Seraphina Picquery, tired and overworked (what else is new, she really shouldn’t have taken that second term), glances up through her eyelashes to study Newt Scamander unobtrusively - maintaining the illusion she’s still reading the reports held in her hands. It’s a skill she mastered long ago, before she’d ever become president and was merely an auror - but somehow Mr. Scamander still manages to fidget uncomfortably like he can sense she’s observing him.

  
_How many times has that particular skill kept him from being mauled by some wild creature?_ she muses thoughtfully.

  
He looks older than he did the first time she met him last year - six months before he officially came to her country - more worn down now and tired. The scar across his nose is new, the way he keeps tugging down on the cuff of his sleeves to make sure they cover his wrists is a new anxiety tick.

  
She’ll never lay claim to being an expert on the younger Scamander brother, but she didn’t become Madame President just because of her wand skills alone.

  
Seraphina finally gives up all pretenses and lays her reports down, folding her hands over each other on her desk. “How’s your brother doing, Newt?”

  
Newt sighs and finally takes a seat in one of her guest chairs, slouching deeply and tucking his chin in the folds of his scarf. “Better,” he says, eyes fixated on the toe of his boots. “He can walk, more or less, with little pain, and the damaged nerves are sixty-eight percent of the way healed.” He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “They had to dip into rune magic to fix it this much though.”

  
She winces in sympathy. Rune magic is tricky and usually painful for the one it’s cast upon - depending on the reason behind magic. Theseus probably couldn’t feel much of that particular pain though, the final curses thrown at him at the end of the battle that had all been won by the Light would see to that. He would’ve been consumed by a much different pain. She remembers him in the emergency healers’ tents, screaming, with his younger brother outside shouting at the healers to “ _do something! Anything!_ ” with his wand clutched in a white knuckled grip.

  
_That_ would be her first introduction to a one Newton Scamander.

  
While the relations between the Ministry of Magic and MACUSA are still stretched and tenuous at best, the Magical Government of Canada’s and MACUSA’s relationship is much, _much_ better - meaning Seraphina couldn’t be at the battle herself, but she could be there in the aftermath. It had only been by loopholes the Ministry was willing to send some of their own aurors to face off against Grindelwald’s forces (which still pisses her off about how much effort it took, he’s a _European_ wizard, they should at least take _some_ responsibility for him).

  
“I’m glad to hear about his progress,” she says finally. His eyes flicker to glance up at her before looking away again. “How is _your_ progress here doing?”

  
“All right,” he says almost grudgingly. “I’m nearly done with the Mid-west, that’s my last region to go over. I should be out of your hair in the next three months or so, don’t worry.”

  
Oh, Percival isn’t going to happy to hear about that.

  
“Don’t rush on my account,” Seraphina replies, vaguely amused. She’s grown fond of the man in his stay in her country, her city. He’s required to apply for permits directly from her for any new creature he acquire so she sees him surprisingly often. Recently he found a demiguise under his care. “I’m happy you’re finally lending your expertise to my aurors. Director Graves speaks highly of you.”

  
Newt flushes a brilliant pink color and she has to hold back her laughter. Occasionally she and Percival will go to lunch, once or twice he’s convinced her to go to The Bakery, and the general rule is to not speak about work - yet, somehow, two particular people are brought up: Newt Scamander and Tina Goldstein.

  
She’s never seen her friend this enamoured since school and she’s very much enjoying this shade of red Newt is slowly turning.

  
“Keep me updated on this case,” Seraphina advises. She glances at the clock on her desk and sighs. She’s not ready for yet _another_ ICW meeting about Grindelwald. You’d think they were rats scurrying away from a cat rather than powerful governments and people against a small army of shaky ideals. “We’ll be in touch, Mr. Scamander. Send your brother my regards.”

  
Newt nods, standing and tugging on his sleeves. “Of course, Madame President. Good luck with your meeting.”

  
Seraphina rolls her eyes, making him grin. The cheekiness! He turns heel and stalks out of her office, his tall figure curling inward as his shoulders creep up to his ears just before he turns the corner.

  
Hm, something’s not right - it’s on the tip of her tongue.

* * *

  
Tina lets her head fall to her desk with a soft _thunk_ , her eyes burning and her brain scrambled. She’d thought with Newt Scamander’s help they would’ve come up with a new lead by now, but it’s been two days with absolutely nothing other than him picking through the evidence for more creature identities.

  
He left three hours ago, summoned to Madame Picquery’s office, and he took his coat with him, chirping a “don’t wait up for me” before heading out her office with absolutely no dread in his step (no bounce either).

  
The only people who don’t dread seeing Madame Picquery are Percival and Vivianne Harvey, Chief of Staff. And both of them went to school with the president - she can’t imagine what makes Newt so unafraid of their president.

  
“Teenie, you work yourself too hard.”

  
She groans. _Not now, please_.

  
“How rude.” Queenie, sister extraordinaire, plucks at Tina’s hair. “Here I am, trying to make your day a little better, and you just _brush_ me off.”

  
“Queenie,” she groans again. “I’m tired. I have a headache and no leads. I’m not really in the mood for a ‘good time.’” Queenie just _tsks_ at her, making her glance up to glare at her blonde and bubbly sister.

  
Queenie just smiles brightly at her. “C’mon, hun. I think this is the perfect time to take you to The Bakery. You need the sweetness of one of their pastries.” She suddenly looks shy, and that’s when Tina gets suspicious. “And plus, I want you to meet Jacob.”

  
She raises an eyebrow. “Jacob?” Tina gasps, sitting up. “ _No_ , Queenie!”

Jacob’s the name of that no-maj she’s so fond of. She _can’t_ be thinking about taking Tina there, it’s against the rules. She’s already risking so much looking the other way whenever Queenie visits him.

  
Her sister huffs. “Teenie, you’re just so paranoid. I’ll have you know, this particular no-maj is not against the rules.” Tina can’t help but laugh in disbelief. “It’s _not_ funny.” Queenie suddenly looks mischevious. “What happens if I tell you The Bakery is frequented by no-other than Director Graves?”

  
Tina abruptly stops laughing, eyes wide. _No way_ \- “No way,” she says out loud. “Percival goes to a no-maj shop?”

  
“Often enough he has a regular order,” Queenie adds, smug and delighted. “And Jacob knows him by name. _And_ \- .” She sits on the edge of her desk, leaning down conspiratorially. “I know Newt Scamander is also a regular.”

  
Percival Graves and Newt Scamander.

  
Two of her worst decisions all rolled up in one.

  
“You haven’t even done anything yet,” Queenie argues. “I don’t think it counts as bad decisions if you just _think_ about them.” She tugs on Tina’s arm. “Come on. I bet you they’re there right now. You don’t want to miss them, do you?”

  
Tina narrows her eyes at the expression on her sister’s face. Wide eyes, raised eyebrows, a secretive twist to her lips that’s unmistakeable.

  
“You’re planning something,” she accuses.

  
Queenie gasps. “Teenie, that _hurts_. You’re just full of barbs today.” If Tina didn’t know any better, she’d apologize. But she does, and she knows that Queenie’s been practicing that hurt tone in her voice for the last fifteen years. “You’re no fun.”

  
“Oh, I’m loads of fun, just not when I’m tired and at work.”

  
“Well, you’re not at work anymore, hun,” Queenie declares. “Clock out and let’s go. We’ll get some dessert, then some dinner. If we play are cards right, maybe we can have a double date.” She winks. “Or, what are they called if it’s a two-three date?”  
Tina just groans, making her laugh.

 

  
She ends up going with her sister, grabbing her coat against the rain drizzling over New York - she swears it’s been raining for _months_ not the...weeks, has it really been merely  _weeks_ since the sun last shone without a cloud in sight? - and walking out of MACUSA arm in arm with Queenie. They talk of trivial things, work mostly, groceries, a couple new no-maj and magical shops that have opened up, a few movies they’re both interested in.

  
Tina’s always been fond of people watching when they go out, trying to figure out who’s magical and who’s not, making up backstories for them. Their dad started her on it a few years before both their parents died, and she could never quite let go of it. It’s fun, mostly because the magical and no-magical community are so hard to distinguish from each other in public, they blend so seamlessly. (Unlike their British counterparts, she’s heard. They still wear _cloaks_ and _robes_ , real magician cloaks, _in public_. What?)

  
Queenie’s favorite part to play in Tina’s people watching is trying to figure out who Tina’s thinking about based on context clues alone. It’s practice for honing on certain thoughts in the confusing chaos that is people’s minds and for linear logic leaping.

  
She’s in the middle of creating an elaborate background involving evil knights and a kind dragon for the curly haired witch standing under a lamppost (she’s obviously a witch, she hasn’t quite hidden her wand well enough, it peeks out every time she raises an arm to stretch or fluff her hair) when Queenie pulls her to a stop right outside of a shop that has The Bakery stenciled on the windows.

  
It’s grown dark early, the poor weather creating the illusion of faster sunsets, and so the the light inside the bakery glows with a beckoning warmth. Most of the seats are full, some of the patrons keeping to themselves with headphones or their heads bent towards their own company. She sees Newt in the back corner, recognizes the back of Percival’s head. There’s a younger man standing at the end of the table, worrying his sleeve between his fingers but smiling all the same. Jacob - she’s seen enough pictures - stands behind the counter, saying something joyfully that makes Newt laugh and Percival’s shoulder’s shake.

  
Tina is entranced by them, watching Newt wipe at his face as he laughs and then says something in return with wide, excited gestures. Percival swings an arm over the back of the booth, turning so Tina can see his profile.

  
“Well, go on.” Queenie nudges her back. “You look like a sad, wet puppy watching a fireplace through a window.”

  
Tina rolls her eyes and steps under the awning to close her umbrella and shake it out. A bell rings when she opens the door, but the dim of the bakery is enough to keep people from actually hearing it. The young man at the edge of the table laughs at something Jacob says, Tina blinks.

  
Wait, no. She knows that young man - and they’re not a young man. Her face burns with the embarrassment and guilt of misgendering, even if it is in her own head and even if she’s only met Credence Barebone twice. Both times they could barely talk to her and the second time they could barely voice they " _weren’t a boy or a man or a girl or woman, ma'am. Please_ -."

  
Then the embarrassment and guilt is replaced by shock and disbelief.

  
Credence Barebone. Standing right in front of her. Hale and whole, cheeks full and hair shiny, wearing clothes that fit them and are in new condition - only worn by everyday use, but cared for and washed properly -, and a smile on their face that’s genuine and complete.

  
Seven months ago, she met Credence on a corner of the Woolworth building where they were handing out fliers for their awful mother’s New Salem Society. She gave them a hot bowl of soup and a thick scarf, and promptly never saw them on that corner or anywhere around the block again. But then, five months ago, she came across a little rundown with Mary Lou Barebone and her awful, awful belt and her awful, awful words.

  
Tina had drawn her wand and -

  
Well, let’s just say Tina now has a permanent grey mark on her record for how she handled that situation.

  
Everyone got Obliviated in the end, the three children in her care were put into the no-maj system. She never got the chance to follow up on any of them, case after case after case got stacked in front of her following that incident and the probationary two weeks she was put on.

  
Staring at Credence, though, makes her think someone may have been missed.

  
Queenie squeals in her ear and hugs her tightly. “Well, ain’t today just full of surprises?” Her heels click as she makes her way over to Jacob, leaning over the counter as far as she can go without climbing over it.

  
“Tina!”

  
Tina’s attention snaps to Newt waving at her, Percival twisting fully in his seat to face the door. She smiles, feeling a little strained, a small ball in her chest that grows a little smaller with each step she takes until it disappears completely when Credence smiles at her - small and nervous, but a smile nonetheless.

  
“Hello again, Miss. Goldstein,” they murmur.

  
Her smile widens. “Hello again, Credence,” she replies. “You’re looking well.”

  
The tips of their ears flush pink, head ducking down to look up at her through their eyelashes. “Thank you.”

  
“You two know each other,” Percival states, looking intrigued. There’s a curious expression on Newt’s face as he glances between her and Credence. “How?” Neither of them get the chance to answer as he suddenly shake his head. If he were the type, he’d smacked himself in the head. “ _Barebone_. Why didn’t I make the connection sooner? The New Salmer Incident. Small world.”

  
Both Tina and Credence wince at the reminder, for two distinctly different reasons.

  
Percival slides over the booth, patting the spot he’s open. “Come on. Take a seat, Tina.”

  
When she takes a seat her eyes immediately gravitate to the no-maj laptop sitting closed to the side. Oh, that’s amazing. She’s pretty sure she’s never met any sort of magical folk who used no-maj tech on a daily basis (judging by the stickers, Newt probably uses it often). Her impression of him only gets better. Progressive.

  
There’s notebooks and folders stacked skewed on top of the laptop with bits of papers and photos sticking out almost haphazardly. On the corner of one of them is a faintly familiar circle contained in a triangle with a line bisecting the middle of both. Newt’s hand suddenly covers it as he hastily stuffs his things into his bag.

  
Tina glances up, meeting Newt’s eyes for a surprisingly long moment before his gaze flits away and down to stare at the surface of the table then back up to Credence.

  
“What would you like?” Newt asks, resoundly not looking at her. “They make really good mocha lattes.” He laughs when Percival wrinkles his nose.

  
Research. It has to be research. A man who travels the world, looking for magical creatures to write about - of course he’d be familiar with Gellert Grindelwald’s symbol of power. Might even do some research on it. For all she knows, the president could have him on some sort of assignment with cooperation of the Ministry of Magic.

  
Not everything is a suspicious story. That symbol is all over Percival’s desk with the number of cases he hoards about Grindelwald.

  
“A raspberry steamer, please,” she says. And she’s still sitting. When she should be at the counter...where people order. “Oh, um - .”

  
“Don’t worry ‘bout it, Miss. Goldstein,” Jacob says, smiling briefly at her before turning that smile back to her giggling, flirting sister. “On the house. Credence - .”

  
“On it, Mr. Kowalski.”

  
Before she can say a word, Credence is twisting around behind the counter and pulling out a metal pitcher and a gallon of milk to get to work.

  
“Welcome to The Bakery,” Jacob says, this time finally focusing on her despite Queenie’s hand on his shoulder. She smiles at the smitten look on her little sister’s face. “Glad you could finally make it, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  
Tina sighs. “Queenie likes to talk, only half of it’s true.”

  
Queenie giggles and Jacob laughs. There’s a choking noise behind her and she glances around to see Percival taking an almost unmanageable gulp of his coffee and burning his tongue. Even Newt laughs as he shoves a cold cup of something light brown towards him to drink.

  
“Yea, Q’s talked about youse,” he says. “But not as much as these two have.” He nods his head towards _both_ Percival and Newt - Newt who promptly knocks over the cold cup, turning bright red. Tina’s heart skips a beat.

  
Percival fumbles, catching the cup before it spills. “You need to watch your elbows,” he mutters, righting the cup carefully and drawing it closer to his chest. “I’m keeping this.”

  
“ _Percy_ ,” Newt whines, making ‘gimmie’ motions with his hands.

  
“Just for that, you don’t get it back.”

  
He’s got ink smudges on his palms and his sleeves are rolled up to above his elbows, showing off the crisscross of scars along both forearms.

  
Nice forearms. Strong forearms. Well-defined forearms, probably from working with animals all the time.

  
Tina shakes herself. _Nope, don’t focus on the arms, Porpentina Esther Goldstein, you know better._

  
(Queenie laughs again, making a little cooing noise under her breath. Tina glares at her, thinking rude and horrible thoughts that just makes her sister laugh harder.)

  
She reaches over and plucks the drink from Percival’s grip. “It’s mine now.” She takes a sip of it, doing her best not to be affected by the way Newt’s staring at her chin (or her lips?). It’s sweet, disgustingly so, with only the barest hint of coffee. “Oh, ew. How can you drink this? It’s like there’s barely any coffee in here.”

  
“ _Thank you,_ ” Percival mutters under his breath.

  
Newt looks offended. “There’s espresso,” he argues. “And you’re getting a steamer. A raspberry _steamer_. It's just flavor and milk!"

  
Tina shoves his drink back over to him and he snatches it up protectively, eyeing the both of them. “Yes, but there’s no coffee in that. You either don’t get coffee or only coffee, you don’t go in between.”

  
“Both of you have _no_ taste,” Newt says, sitting back and practically pouting. “I mean, I see why: you’ve destroyed any taste buds you _might_ have had.”

  
She wants to press her fingers against the lines in his forehead, smooth thee frown away. If it weren’t for the twinkle in his eyes she’d be worried she’d actually offended him. She smiles at him and receives one in equal turn.

  
“Your steamer, Miss. Goldstein.” Credence appears, setting her drink in front of her. Then - “Mr. Kowalski, it’s seven. Can I clock out now?”

  
“Of course,” Jacob replies. He ducks under the counter, rummaging around for something, then pops back up with a bakery bag in hand. “Don’t forget your tips and take this with you. I added some of your sister’s _snake doughnuts_ ,” he says with a teasing lilt to his voice, “in there for her. Make sure she shares.”

  
There’s a wry twist to Credence’s lips as they pocket the tips from the tip jar, leaving a dollar or two behind, and takes the back from their boss. “Not likely to happen, Mr. Kowalski,” they say. “You know Modesty.”

  
Credence bounds out of the bakery, meeting two girls outside on the sidewalk. The younger one is holding an umbrella over her sister, but when Credence pulls out a pastry from the bag she squeals and shoves the umbrella to her sister to grab the pastry and take a big bite out of it. She waves through the window at Jacob, who waves back with a grin, and lets Credence wrap their arm around her and pull her close to their side. The older sister leans in close to her sibling, umbrella over all three of them as they walk away.

  
“Oh, bugger,” Newt suddenly mutters, digging into his bag. “I forgot - Excuse me.” And then he’s off like a shot, into the rain. Without an umbrella. “Credence!” He holds the brown wrapped package he’d take out of his back protectively against his chest, back curving to create even more of a cover. He disappears past the window, leaving tree out of four of them behind, bewildered.

  
“What’s that about?” Percival asks. He shifts back around, his arm pressing warm against the back of her neck and shoulders. Subconsciously she leans into the crevice it makes along the side of his body, but not quite relaxing.

  
Jacob waves a hand. “A book. Newt says he had in his collection, but didn’t really need it anymore. Credence said they were interested when they last visited his shop.”

  
Or two out of four, Tina corrects herself. If Jacob knew about it, then Queenie probably knows too.

  
“He’s coming back,” Queenie says, straightening up. “Oh, Jacob's, honey, you should make him that tea you got last week. He said he liked it.”

  
“Excellent idea, darling.”

  
Percival’s eyes widen and he mouths ‘ _darling_?’ to her, looking half-scandalized and half-horrified - mostly exaggerated. A completely unprecedented expression that she laughs out loud, banging her knee on the bottom of the table and making the cups on the surface rattle.

  
“You, Director Graves, need to work on your occlumency skills,” Queenie teases. Percival’s jaw snaps shut and he scowls. “Now, now, don’t act like that, sweetheart. Everything else, so important, is so nice and packed away, but those little thoughts?” She twirls a finger lazily, smiling that little mischievous smile she does when she’s getting her way and no one can do anything about it. “You’ve got no practice with those.”

  
If Tina hadn’t spent two decades and a little extra with her sister, she’d be worried about what Queenie sees in her head. Unfortunately, having a blood-born legilimens as a sibling means that Tina’s natural occlumency skills are non-existent. She’s had to train her ass off to put up even one ward - one that doesn’t even work again Queenie even if she tried her hardest - and she mostly just relies on charmed pendants and the small ward rune behind both of her ears, barely bigger than her pinky nail, to protect her on the job.

  
It’s a liability sometimes, but luckily the runes are need-to-know and incredibly hard to get off, even if someone were to take, say, a hot iron to it. They’re too deep into her skin and magic to get rid of them if someone were going just for the physical representation of the magic that keeps her mind hers.

  
“You, Queenie Goldstein, are a _menace_ ,” Percival replies airily. His hand curls around, fingertips brushing Tina’s shoulder.

  
“I know!” she chirps.

  
Newt comes barging in then, running a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it off his forehead to slick it back. He’s grinning widely, a self-satisfied smile on his face.

  
He’s striking, absolutely striking, now that she can see the whole of his face. Before he was attractive, sure, but he came off demurred and adorable. Now, his features match those she sees in _Witch Weekly_. Model-perfect. His eyes bright green and wide, freckles dotting his face like someone took a heavy paintbrush and flicked it at him artfully, and a lopsided twist to his mouth that alternates being troublemaker-like and wry to being nervous and earnest.

  
“Well, that’s taken care off. Sorry ‘bout that, completely forgot.” His shirt is soaked now, but he doesn’t seem to care as he takes his seat back. “Terrible weather,” he comments lightly, not really seeming to need a reply. “I thought London was bad.” Jacob places a steaming mug in front of him and he just _lights_ up. “Oh, Mr. Kowalski, you shouldn’t’ve.”

  
Jacob scoffs. “I swear, Mr. Scamander. Say that one more time and I’ll have to send Queenie to kick your ass.” Queenie gives a little wave. “You know how she gets.”

  
Newt sighs, wrapping both hands around the mug. “Very well,” he murmurs knowingly. He takes a sip, eyes closing and sighing again - this time in bliss.

  
He slides down in his seat, ankle knocking against Tina’s. He cracks an eye open to stare at her, she meets his gaze steadily and refuses to move her legs away. Instead, actually, she moves her leg _forward_ , sliding their legs together and only stopping when her shin is leaning against the side of his knee comfortably. Newt’s ears flush and he glances away, shoulders curling in.

  
But he doesn’t move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A surprising amount was revealed in this chapter! Woot!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it! Let me know in the comments below what you thought - good or bad - yeah? Thank you! Enjoy your day/night/week/month/year!
> 
> The 'snake doughnuts' is actually based off a idea bounce between me and a friend (mostly her) concerning that I pointed out that I'd believe Newt 'miscounting' the occamies if it weren't for the fact they were so neatly curled up 'like snake doughnuts' and she's writing a Jacob/Queenie story involving the bakery and Modesty liking the pastry based off the occamy and she calls them 'snake doughnuts.' So, yeah, there's that.
> 
> Also, as I'm coming up with these chapters and what I want to happen, I've realized there's more to this story than I thought. Beware, we will get to the hurt/comfort and angst, and it ain't gonna be pretty (but oh-so-much fun!)
> 
> Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> An experiment, to see how well received this OT3 pairing is. I have... _plans_


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